Eight Months Later…

"Never trust anyone, Becca."

My father told me that when I was ten years old. Turns out he knew exactly what he was talking about. Which is ironic. Because he wasn't just the first person to break my trust. He was the one who obliterated it.

The memory still comes to me sometimes. Not all of it. Just pieces. My mother screaming. My youngest brother crying. The smell of lit matches. Blood. So much blood.

Then silence. Which was the worst. The utter silence after so much chaos, violence and pain.

When it was over, four members of my family were dead. My father among them. Only Rachel and I survived. Some people spend their lives trying to understand why. I stopped asking that question years ago. There is no answer that brings people back.

No explanation that makes murder make sense. No excuse that matters. The only thing that mattered was Rachel. Rachel, who was twelve and refused to sleep unless I held her hand. Rachel, who cried herself to sleep every night for over a year, who woke up screaming. Rachel, who followed me everywhere because she was terrified I'd disappear too. For a long time, I was all she had.

And she was all I had. The foster system tried to separate us twice. The first social worker learned very quickly why that was a bad idea. The second one was smarter. After that, nobody tried again. Rachel and I survived together. The way people survive natural disasters. One ugly day at a time. Then one morning I woke up, and she was gone.

Just... gone.

No goodbye.

No note.

No body.

No answers.

The police called her a runaway. The first detective assigned to the case suggested she probably met a boy. The second suggested drugs. The third suggested I should prepare myself for the possibility that she didn't want to be found. I broke his nose. Not my finest moment. Also not my worst. That was four years ago.

Since then, I've followed every lead. Every rumor. Every maybe. Every possibility. Most of them went nowhere. Some cost me money. Others cost me sleep. One nearly got me stabbed. Still worth it. Because Rachel is out there somewhere. She has to be. And until I know otherwise, I won't stop looking. The catering tray in my hands suddenly feels heavier.

"Beccs."

I glance up. My boss jerks his head toward the ballroom. "Less daydreaming. More serving."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He glares. I smile sweetly. He leaves.

The smile stays in place until he's gone. People are always surprised when they find out I'm not nice. It's my face. Big eyes. Soft features. The kind of face people describe as angelic. Innocent. Trustworthy.

I hate it. Or, at least, I used to. These days I've learned to appreciate the advantages. Most people take one look at me and assume I'm harmless. Sweet. Easy to push around. Those people tend to make mistakes.

The foster mother who tried to separate Rachel and me learned that after finding three dozen spiders in her bedroom. The boy who cornered my sister in the cafeteria learned it when an entire colony of fire ants mysteriously appeared in his underwear drawer, and he didn't realize it until he put his shorts on...

Then there is the private investigator who eventually took pity on me and started helping with Rachel's case, who still claims I scare him. He's not wrong. He's the only person in the entire world who got a peek behind the curtain. A short one. But it was enough.

Looking innocent is useful. It gives people permission to underestimate you. And underestimated people get away with murder.

I adjust the tray and step through the double doors into the ballroom. The sight hits me like a champagne cork to the chest. Holy shit.

Crystal chandeliers drip with light, casting rainbows across marble floors. Designer dresses in silk and sequins glide past like living jewels. Women dripping in diamonds and emeralds that probably cost more than I’ll earn in my entire lifetime—probably ten lifetimes— chatter lively. Politicians and businessmen laugh over glasses of wine that cost more than my rent. The air smells like money, perfume, and power.

For a second, I just stand there, tray balanced perfectly, letting the luxury wash over me. Wow. I knew rich people lived like this—I'm not an idiot—but seeing it up close? Actually being inside it? It's something else entirely.

What would it feel like to belong here? To wear one of those floor-length gowns that shimmer like starlight with every step? To have diamonds resting heavy and cool against my collarbone instead of worrying about the next electric bill or how many more shifts I need to pick up just to afford Charly's latest lead on Rachel? To have enough money that I could hire the best private investigators in the world instead of scraping by with whatever scraps he collects on a budget?

My feminine side—the one I've kept locked down tight for years under grease, worry, and survival—stirs painfully. God, I miss pretty things. I miss feeling like a girl instead of just a tired, desperate sister always chasing ghosts. For one stupid, traitorous heartbeat, I let myself daydream: me in one of those dresses, laughing without looking over my shoulder, safe enough to actually live instead of just hunt.

Then reality crashes back in. These people aren't safe. They're just better at hiding the knives. I immediately hate all of them.

And then my eyes land on HIM. For a second, my brain refuses to process what my eyes are seeing.

No.

No freaking way.

What the hell is he doing here? Of all the people in the world. Of all the ballrooms in Vegas. Of all the nights. HIM.

My pulse stumbles. Not because I'm happy to see him. Definitely not. Because Alessio Vitali—according to his business card—is the last person I ever expected to see again. For eight months, he's existed in that strange category of people who don't quite feel real. The kind you meet once and never forget. The kind you think about when you should be thinking about literally anything else.

I still remember the first time I saw him. Standing beside that ridiculous Shelby on the side of a mountain road like he owned the world. Like nothing bad had ever happened to him. Like money fixed everything. Like people existed primarily to solve his problems. Arrogant. Annoying. Insufferable.

And, unfortunately, hot enough that I wouldn't have minded him fucking me right there on top of his car's hood. God, the thought still makes my thighs clench. That exact filthy scenario has had my little vibrator working overtime, the batteries burning out multiple times over the last eight months while I pictured him bending me over that sleek black hood, pinning me down with that big, powerful body, those crystal blue eyes locked on mine as he drove into me hard and deep. No talking. No attitude. Just raw, angry, mind-melting sex until I couldn't even remember why I hated rich snobs like him.

I shove the memory down before it can heat my face. Men like him should come with a warning label. Dark hair. Crystal blue eyes. Shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers and police lineups at the same time. Everything about him screamed danger, the expensive kind. The kind wrapped in tailored suits and lethal confidence. The kind that smiles while destroying your life.

Back then, I'd watched him watch me. He thought he was subtle. He wasn't. I noticed every slow, hungry sweep of those blue eyes over my body. Every lingering glance at my tits when I leaned over the engine. Every second of raw male appreciation while I was covered in grease and pretending not to care. The idiot probably thought I was too focused on the car to notice. I wasn't.

The truth was, I'd noticed him far more than I should have. A lot more. Which was exactly why I hadn’t driven the Shelby to Vegas myself. I'd wanted to. The car was a goddamn masterpiece. But the real reason sat seventy feet away in a dark suit right now. Alessio Vitali. Casino owner. Businessman. Mafia. Those had been the first search results when I Googled him. The second search had been a call to Charly.

"Stay away from him," my PI said after digging.

"Why?"

"Because men like that don't end well."

Unfortunately, my own brain had reached the same conclusion. Stay away. Don't get involved. Don't be stupid. For once in my life, I'd listened. And now here he is anyway. Across the ballroom. My stomach promptly forgets how to function. Wonderful. I immediately turn the other way. Cowardly? Maybe. Smart? Definitely.

Because the last thing I need tonight is Alessio Vitali remembering who I am. Not that I truly believe there's any chance of that. Men like him don't remember nobodies like me.

The catering tray suddenly becomes fascinating. So does a nearby floral arrangement. And the chandelier. And literally anything that isn't six feet of dark-haired mafia boss standing fifty yards away. I make it almost three whole minutes before someone grabs my elbow.

"Beccs."

I turn and immediately relax. "Suzy."

She grins and pulls me into a quick hug. Suzy Harper is my friend. My only friend, unless you include Charly. She's also my former foster sister and partner in crime. One of the few people who never stopped asking about Rachel. We landed in the same foster home when I was fifteen and she was twelve. Somehow, we survived both adolescence and the Hendersons' obsession with family game night, though neither of us has fully recovered. She's also the reason I got this gig here tonight.

"You look like you saw a ghost," she says.

"Not a friendly one." I try to laugh it off, but my nervousness is palpable. Damn that man.

Her eyes narrow immediately. "What happened?"

I glance across the room. Unfortunately, he's still there. "Remember the guy I told you about?"

"The hot car guy?"

I hate that she remembers that description. "Yes."

"The guy you definitely weren't attracted to?"

I hate that she remembers that one too. "He's here."

Her eyebrows shoot upward. "Oh."

"Exactly."

Suzy follows my gaze. Then whistles. "Okay, wow."

"Suzy."

"No, seriously. Wow."

I sigh. She isn't wrong. Dark suit. Broad shoulders. An aura of power that would go unchallenged in any room. The kind of confidence that should be illegal. Alessio somehow manages to look more dangerous than he did eight months ago. Which seems unfair.

“Don't,” I warn.

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking you have terrible taste in men."

"That's actually fair."

She laughs. Then reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a thick stack of cash. My eyes widen. "Jesus."

"Told you." She fans several crisp fifties and hundreds. "These people throw money around like confetti."

I stare. That stack alone would cover two weeks of expenses. Maybe more. Charly's trip to Mexico flashes through my mind. The leads he’s chasing. The contacts he’s trying to verify. Every mile costs money. Every answer costs money. Every possibility costs money. Rachel costs money. Suzy shoves the bills back into her pocket. "Smile."

I make a face. She points. "Smile."

"I am smiling."

"You look like you're planning a murder."

"That's just my face."

"Beccs."

I sigh dramatically. Then paste on my customer-service smile. "There. Happy?"

"Terrifyingly."

"Good."

She nudges me toward the ballroom. "Go charm rich people."

I hate when she's right. An hour later, my cheeks hurt. I've smiled. Laughed. Refilled champagne. Listened to stories about golf courses and private jets and investment portfolios. I've earned every dollar. And despite my best efforts, I'm beginning to relax. Then it happens. That strange sensation. The one every woman recognizes. Being watched. The smile slips slightly. My pulse stutters. Slowly, carefully, I glance across the room. And find him looking directly at me. Not casually. Not accidentally. Not because he happened to glance my way. No.

He's watching me with an unreadable expression. His attention is totally fixed on me. My stomach performs an alarming little flip. Shit.

The ballroom is packed with hundreds of people, but somehow it feels like there's only the two of us. Like an invisible thread has stretched across the room. One I can't quite bring myself to break.

His gaze drops briefly. Then returns to my face. Heat crawls up my neck. Double shit. Now I remember exactly why staying away from Alessio Vitali seemed like such a good idea, because judging by the look in those crystal blue eyes, he remembers me too.

My tray feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, but I grip it tighter, using it like a shield I don't really want. Alessio Vitali is walking straight toward me through the glittering crowd, cutting through silk gowns and tailored suits like they're nothing. Every step he takes makes the air around me thicken, heavy and electric, like the charge before lightning strikes. My skin prickles. My pulse hammers low in my throat, and heat curls deep in my belly—unwanted, undeniable.

Don't you dare run, I tell myself. But my body remembers him too well. Those crystal blue eyes that stripped me bare on the side of that mountain road. The way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me right there against the Shelby.

He stops just inches away, close enough that his cologne—dark spice and something dangerously masculine—wraps around me. The ballroom noise fades to a dull hum. There's only him. The heat rolling off his broad chest. The way his gaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat before locking back on my eyes.

"I never even caught your name," his voice is low and seductively rough, like gravel under expensive boots. A slow, predatory smile curves his lips. "Fancy meeting you here, Grease Monkey."

The words hit like a spark on dry tinder. My nipples tighten against my uniform top, and I hate how easily my body betrays me. Eight months of filthy fantasies about this man, and now he's here, crowding my space like he owns it.

I tilt my chin up, refusing to step back even though every inch of me feels pulled toward him. The air between us crackles, thick, suffocating, alive with tension that makes my thighs press together on instinct.

"It's Beccs, Beccs Morgan." I fire back, keeping my tone sharp even as my breath comes a little faster. "I figured a man who calls in helicopters for a broken water pump didn't need little old me playing delivery girl across state lines."

His eyes darken; that crystal blue turns molten, and damn, my breath catches. He leans in just a fraction, and his fingers brush the edge of my tray in a small, deliberate circle while his thumb barely touches my naked upper arm. The light caress sends electricity racing up my arm. The contact is barely there, but it burns. My skin hums where his thumb traced my flesh. God, I want more. I want his hands on my hips, pinning me down, that powerful body pressing me into the nearest shadowed corner until I can't think straight.

"Beccs," he murmurs, tasting my name like sin on his tongue. The way he says it makes my core clench. "Suits you. Short. Sharp. Impossible to forget." His gaze drags slowly down my body, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, like he's remembering exactly how I looked bent over that engine. "I've been thinking about you. Wondering if that smart mouth of yours is as filthy as I imagined while you checked my car."

Heat floods my cheeks. I shift the tray slightly, letting my free hand brush his forearm, light, teasing, testing. The muscle there is rock-hard under his sleeve, and he tenses at the contact. Good. Let him feel it too. The pull between us is magnetic, dangerous, the kind of chemistry that could burn everything down.

"You never delivered my car. I waited."

"You waited?" I whisper, stepping just close enough that our bodies nearly touch. My voice drops, laced with challenge and something breathier than I want. "Doesn't seem like your style, Mr. Vitali. Rich boys usually get what they want when they want it." I bite my lower lip, letting my eyes flick to his mouth before meeting his stare again. "Or maybe you were scared a Grease Monkey like me would actually put you on your knees."

Alessio's hand moves again, another small, possessive graze along the back of my wrist, and his thumb strokes once over my racing pulse. The touch is electric, sending sparks straight to my core. I'm wet already. Aching. The air feels thicker, heavier, like we're the only two people in the room and the rest of the world is just background noise.

"Hmm, I like it when you call me Mr. Vitali." His low chuckle vibrates through me. "Sweetheart, I've been hard for you since Idaho. I’m picturing you bent over that hood again… only this time with my cock buried deep while you scream my name." His eyes burn into mine, dark with promise. "Question is, you gonna keep pretending you don't want it? Or are you finally ready to admit you've been dripping for this since the second you saw me?"

I swallow hard, my heart is pounding, every nerve ending is alive in a way I haven't felt in like… ever. The tension coils tighter, ready to snap. Part of me wants to drag him into the nearest hallway right now and let him ruin me against the wall. The smarter part knows men like Alessio don't just take, they claim. And once he does… I might never want to be free again. But damn if the danger doesn't make me wetter.

The air between us is so thick with heat I can barely breathe. Alessio's thumb strokes over my racing pulse again, deliberate and possessive, sending fresh sparks straight to my core. My thighs clench involuntarily. God, this man is dangerous; his crystal blue eyes burn into me like he knows exactly how I'll sound when I come for him. I'm two seconds from giving in when—

"Hey, do you have some champagne for me too, or is this a private delivery?"

The sleazy voice slices through the moment like a cheap knife. I jerk back, my face flaming beet red as I turn toward the intruder. Some drunk asshole in an ill-fitting tux leers at me like I'm on the menu. My stomach twists with embarrassment. Of course. Of course someone would ruin this.

Before I can even muster a professional smile, Alessio moves. He steps straight into the man's space, shoulders squared, radiating pure lethal calm that makes my pussy clench hard. Fuck, he's hot. The kind of deadly that should terrify me but only makes me wetter.

"That's not a way to talk to a lady," Alessio growls, yes, growls, there is no other way to describe it. The temperature around us drops ten degrees.

The idiot actually smirks and pretends to look around the ballroom. "I don't see a lady."

Everything happens so fast. Alessio's hand shoots out and snatches the tray from my grip. Crystal flutes tumble, shattering across the marble floor in a spray of champagne and glass. Before the man can react, Alessio swings the empty tray like a weapon—crack—straight into his face. Blood explodes from the guy's nose. He drops to his knees with a wet gurgle, clutching his ruined face.

The entire ballroom goes dead silent; hundreds of eyes turn on us. But Alessio isn't done. He drives a knee into the man's ribs for good measure, the sound sickeningly satisfying. Then his fingers wrap around my arm—firm, warm, electric—and he tugs me close.

"You got cut," he says loud enough for everyone to hear, his eyes scan me with something feral.

I glance down automatically. There's nothing. Not a scratch. But the way he says it, the raw possession in his voice, makes my knees weak.

"Let me help you."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He ushers me away from the mess, cutting through the staring crowd like a shark through water. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. His grip on my arm is possessive, burning through my short uniform sleeve, sending little shocks of need straight between my legs with every step. He shoulders open a door at the end of a dimly lit hallway and pushes me into a marble and gold private bathroom—blessedly empty. The second the door clicks shut behind us, he spins me around and kisses me. It's not soft. It's oblivion.

His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeps in like he owns me. I moan into him, the tray long forgotten, along with the guy with the broken nose. My hands fist into his expensive suit as electricity explodes between us. He tastes like sin and bourbon and dark promises. One big hand grips my hip, yanks me flush against the hard ridge of his cock straining in his pants. The other tangles in my ponytail, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp.

"Fuck, Beccs," he rasps against my lips, breaking the kiss only to trail his mouth down my throat. "Eight months I've been thinking about this mouth. This body. Tell me you're soaked for me already."

His hand slides under my skirt without warning, fingers shoving my panties aside. Two thick digits push inside me shamelessly, curling deep. I nearly collapse. A broken whimper escapes me as my walls clamp around him.

"Is that for me, babe?" he growls, pumping slowly, obscenely loud in the quiet bathroom. He pulls his fingers free and brings them to his mouth, licking my arousal off them with a filthy groan. His eyes never leave mine. "Tastes like you've been dripping for my cock since Idaho."

I can't speak. I can barely stand. He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sits me on the marble counter. My skirt bunches around my waist. He rips my panties down my legs in one rough motion, dropping them carelessly to the floor.

I hear the sound of a condom wrapper tearing and watch as he opens his fly to release his thick cock. He rolls it on his dick with practiced efficiency, giving me barely time to wonder if he's going to split me in two with that weapon. Then he's there, pressing the wide head against my entrance, rubbing it over my swollen clit until I'm shaking.

"Been dreaming about this tight little pussy," he murmurs roughly as he notches at my entrance. "Gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for days. Say you want it, Beccs. Tell me you need this cock ruining you."

"Yes—fuck, Alessio, please—"

He thrusts in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders, as he stretches me so perfectly it borders on pain. He doesn't give me time to adjust. He fucks me like he's claiming me, deep, punishing strokes that rock the counter and make my tits bounce under my uniform top.

"That's it," he groans, one hand braced on the mirror behind me, the other gripping my ass hard enough to bruise. "Take every inch like a good little girl. This pussy was made for me. So fucking wet. So fucking tight. You gonna come all over my cock in this bathroom like a dirty little secret?"

I'm moaning too loudly, and my legs wrap around his waist as he pounds into me. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside, sending stars exploding behind my eyes. The wet slap of skin, his low, filthy curses, the way he watches where we're joined—it's too much.

He leans in, biting my neck, sucking hard enough to mark me. "Come for me, babe. Let me feel this greedy cunt squeeze my cock."

The orgasm crashes through me so hard my vision whites out. I clamp down around him, crying his name as waves of pleasure rip me apart. He follows with a guttural groan, slamming deep one last time and pulsing inside the condom as he finds his own release.

We stay locked together, panting, foreheads pressed. His thumb strokes my hip in a surprisingly gentle circle. The air still crackles between us, thick with spent lust and the promise of more. Alessio pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and satisfied. A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips. "Still think I'm just a rich boy who can't fix his own car?"

I laugh breathlessly, still trembling around him. God help me… I'm already addicted.

My body is still trembling, my thighs slick and shaking around his hips as the last ripples of my orgasm fade. Alessio stays buried deep inside me for one endless heartbeat; his chest heaves against mine, and his powerful frame cages me against the marble counter like he never wants to let go.

Then he kisses me again, hard, claiming, devouring. His tongue strokes deep, possessive, stealing what little breath I have left. It's not gentle. It's a promise. A brand. My fingers curl into his suit jacket, holding on as fresh heat sparks low in my belly even though I just came harder than I have in years.

He pulls back slowly, his lips brushing mine once more before he steps away. I feel the loss immediately, empty, aching, already craving more of him. My uniform is a mess, my skirt bunched around my waist, my top askew. I look thoroughly fucked, and the dark satisfaction in his crystal blue eyes says he likes it that way.

Alessio tucks himself away, zips up, then reaches down and plucks my ruined panties from the floor. He holds the delicate black lace up between us, a wicked smirk curves his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he brings them to his face and inhales deeply, his eyes flutter half-closed like he's savoring the scent of my arousal.

A fresh wave of heat floods my cheeks. "You're disgusting," I whisper, but my voice is wrecked, breathless, and we both know I don't mean it.

"I'm keeping these," he declares, folding the lace neatly before slipping them into his pocket. "Until next time, Grease Monkey."

He steps close again, and one big hand cups my jaw with surprising gentleness. Then he boops the tip of my nose with his finger, playful, almost boyish, in complete contrast to the man who just fucked me senseless in a stranger's bathroom.

My heart stutters. The electricity is still there, crackling under my skin, making my nipples tighten and my core clench around nothing. Alessio saunters toward the door like he didn't just ruin me for anyone else, broad shoulders straight, that lethal confidence wrapped around him like a second skin. He glances back once, flashing me a slow, dangerous smile that promises this is nowhere near over.

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sit there on the counter, legs dangling, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath. My thighs are sticky. My neck throbs where he sucked a mark into my skin. And my panties… God, he took my panties.

What the hell just happened?

One minute, I was serving champagne and trying to avoid him. The next, I was sitting on a bathroom counter getting railed by the most dangerous, arrogant, stupidly hot man I've ever met. In public. At a fancy event. While my boss is probably looking for me.

I press my fingers to my swollen lips, still tasting him. My body hums with aftershocks, alive in a way it hasn't been in years. I should be furious. Mortified. Running in the opposite direction. Instead, a shaky laugh escapes me as I slide off the counter on wobbly legs and try to fix my uniform.

Alessio Vitali is trouble. The kind of trouble that could destroy me. I'd be better off staying as far away from him as possible.